When the god of light runs out of batteries he's reduced to using a torch. Sad business, as I'm sure you can imagine. Zeus, however, has some advice: Those cans we stopped using because of that hole in the ozone? Well, they burn good. Real good. Or were those flames the unquenchable spirit of the new typographers? If so, maybe it's time you quit with the Bembo and tried a little Gill Sans for a change.

• Fires, Apollo? So, reassess aerosol, lop a serif.

Is nonsense about nonsense going too far? Is it even impossible? These questions may or may not concern us, but one thing I'm certain of is this: any cobbled together robot outfitted with artificial intelligence has got to be able to spout a steady stream of blather if it wants to be taken for a human. I worry that today's AI programmers, hard at work to make their software understand reason, have forgotten to include the ability to speak without it. Rudimentary programs might work like this.

• Start folderol: "I ate tailored loft rats."

I hate to spoil the ending of the Wooster and Jeeves story I just finished, so I'll try to keep it cryptic. Shortly after the denouement, the butler sums up the day's events in his diary thusly:

• Repaid smart rebel, bagged egg-able Bertram's diaper.

Nobody has solved the first Palindrome of the Day, which was really not all that tough. What do I got to do, give a prize or something? Ok, I will offer a copy of my book and a free t-shirt, of my choice, to whoever solves it first. Shipping and handling included!

There are many strange things in the world, but few are stranger than the mind of the palindromist:

• Red dominos, sir . . . Fez, a male Lamaze frisson: I'm odder.

Have you ever sat down to lunch and thought "How did these Italian sandwiches get here?" I mean, many of the things we eat—chickens, cows, oryx—come about from a little interaction between members of the opposite sex. And yet, I've never seen two sandwiches make love. Perhaps, like humans, they do their thing in private. But where, exactly, is private for a sandwich?

• Do paninis sin in a pod?

How I wish that Toyota had named the Prius just a little differently, so the answer could be "Sure, paninis sin in a Perus."

If you are one of those who feel that panini is already a plural (of panino—L.A. rots a panino's son in a pastoral), just take out the ess—it'll still work.

Regardless of where they do it, afterwards they take one of these:

• Panini Nap.

Bear with me. Thars meanin' what can be dug from these words. Say you're hiking up a big mountain and you come across a stray dog accompanied by a small, wandering, type guy with a white beard and a white hat. The journeyman suggests that if you give his pup a moniker you may get lucky in your hunt for a nice home on the hillside (a local superstition). But as it happens, you've already passed the structure he refers to, and you weren't alone at the time either—for days, a devotee of Bacchus, covered in flies, had been following you. Luckily, while gazing upon the house one of its gutters broke, soaking the bacchanalian below. He had to spend some time trying to get dry, allowing you to hurry off. But the event revealed just how rickety and overpriced the house was. And if you're not interested in buying, why would you try to increase your luck in acquiring it by christening the dog? See what I'm saying? Get it? Here's what ya say to the old fool:

• Name mongrel? Everest estate wet a tsetse reveler, gnome man.

". . . or I'll eat my hat" is the usual expression following a pronouncement of certainty. Others, though, proclaim that, if their statments are proven false, they will eat the nearest artist. I, for instance, was certain that no truly wise prisoner held at Guantanamo would ever be shown to the public. I was wrong, it turns out. Behold the consequences:

• Sage detainees seen. I ate Degas.

As always, the betting was fierce. Yet certain spectators were distracted by the splendidly decorated bosoms of their fellow audience members. Their fathers asked them to make a choice between the two spectacles.

• Yo! Barbaro or a bra, boy?

Ah, when little republics claim their independence—what rich material, all that turmoil, for the novelist. Especially the French novelist. Too bad the author of Querelle isn't around to take advantage of the chaos.

• Poor Genet, no Montenegro op.

It's finally happened: In an attempt to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the world, Palestinian leaders have thrown down their arms and taken up lotion instead. They've even gone so far as to name one of their new salves after an old political enemy. Gotta give them credit for that:

• Tops to Hamas lab's "Abbas Balsam"—a hot spot.

• Worst Intel Mac scam let nits row.

Let me explain. As you know, there was a lot of yammering and controversy when Apple switched to the new chips. But the real scandal, untold elsewhere, is that the new computers use slave labor. You think it's electricity powering that processor? Nope. Insects. Not even insects—insect eggs. And each one has an oar, pulling for all it's worth, so you can sit at home, surf the web and stumble across—need I say it?—inane blogs like this one.

Don't follow leaders, watch the parkin' meters.

• Set a bad role model: C. Rice sacks Iraq after fret FAQ—a risk-case circle-dome lord abates.

More penetrating insights on the state of the media today:

• Sex at "No spin" Fox is a "six of nips" on taxes.

A possible explanation for the renewed relations with Gaddafi:

• Nike tile? Say, bill Libya's elite kin.

• Not we! NSA ices a case: CIA's Newton.
  

• Red robots to border!

Bush's new plan to keep out illegal immigrants.

Or construe your own meaning:

• Red robots axe Texas: to border!

Ever heard anyone complain that the government was taking too much of our money? First it was a percentage of everything we bought, they say, then it was a percentage of our hard earned money. Where will it end? Will they penalize us for having overly large body parts?

For some, these worries become obsessions.

• Rae fixates on a nose tax, I fear.

Several members of the house, named and annonymous, are ordered to help with Russia's recent demands (news hounds will understand, anyway).

• Ed, Art, Rep: aid Putin's snit: up diaper trade.

I never thought I'd be chiming in about Tom Cruise's publicity, but . . . if Cruise started to notice that everyone was making fun of him he might just give up and send this note to, say, David Letterman:

• To host: on M:i:III, I'm not so hot.

This one would have made a good puzzle, but till someone solves the first one (which ain't that hard), I'm just tossing them on the blog whole.

More topical palindromes to delight! These of a volcano ("on a clove" and all that, yes) that I once saw erupt with my very own eyes.

• No, set, O Merapi lava. Join in, Io, Java. Lip a remote son.
• Red 'n' I, Merapi lava, join in. I, O Java, lip a reminder.
• Cash? say, Merapi's so "lava Java loss." I pare my ash sac.

Today's message from Iran to Rice and others:

• Ms, I lob meek U.N. nuke embolism.

An attempt to be topical:

• Dude! Porter Goss: I miss ogre trope dud.